Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, down goes the rain,
As it streaks across the glass window pane.
There are sheep to be fed;
There are
words to be said.
There are seeds to be sown;
There are crops to be grown.
But still the rain falls on.
The snow white swan glides swiftly by,
Way up high in the sapphire sky.
Now there are sheets of rain,
On the smooth window pane.
The sea waves are so high,
Nearly reaching to the sky.
But still the swan soars on.
The Welsh cakes sizzle away in the pan,
Trying to get a golden brown tan.
But now there’s thunder outside,
And that sleek white swan is trying to hide.
The lightning slices though the sky so grey,
And onto a hill where a pine tree lay.
Yet the Welsh cakes still sizzle on.
Elizabeth Pickett
